The Unbreakable Vow
by rad-booty
Summary: When tragedy hits, it's always John Watson who saves the day...
1. Chapter 1

John hurried to the door of 221B in the whipping wind of the snowy afternoon and headed up the familiar creaky stairs to the flat he had so frequently visited. It had been months since he last was here, but the settled dust and scratches along the stairwell seemed frozen in time. He knocked quietly at the door and waited, with no response. He knocked again, waited, and sighed. "Sherlock?"

He called. He started back down the stairs, running his hand against the aged mahogany and rounding the corner to Mrs. Hudson's flat. She answered immediately, with a warm smile. "John!"

She reached out to him and led him inside, "It's been so long!"

He followed her to her kitchen table and smiled up at her familiar plants hanging by the window,

"I know." He said,

"I thought it was time to visit."

Mrs. Hudson headed to her stove and began a kettle of water.

"Oh, dear. Sherlock misses you so very much." She sighed.

"He spent the morning on the sofa reading some sort of news article and wouldn't speak a word. I worry for him sometimes, you know?"

"Don't we all?" John lamented.

"He wasn't there when you knocked?"

"No. Or didn't answer, at least."

"Hm."

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and stared out to the window.

"I didn't think I heard him leave." She sighed and changed the subject,

"How's Mary?"

"She's well, I suppose." John said,

"Not much to tell. It gets dreary sometimes. Working, coming home, doing it all over again."

"Looking for another case?" Mrs. Hudson smirked.

"I don't know," John pondered,

"I could go for an outing."

The two sat in silence for a few moments before the tea kettle whistled and Mrs. Hudson poured tea for the two of them, the room filling with the melancholy scent of earl grey and steam.

"You should try the door again." Mrs. Hudson suggested,

"I know he's here." John sipped his tea and eventually headed upstairs again to his old flat, thinking about the many adventures he missed and longed for. He knocked on the door again, with no response. This time, instead of waiting, he pulled out his old key and simply stepped inside. The flat was so filled with papers, beakers, jars, and books that the floor wasn't even visible beneath the rubbish and a terrible smell fumed from the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" He called. He turned towards the kitchen and scanned the packed shelves before heading down the hall to the bedroom. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't home after all.

He knocked quietly on the bedroom door twice before coming in, and found Sherlock wrapped in his sheets in bed, presumably sleeping. John rolled his eyes. For such an active mind Sherlock sure liked to pout.

"Sherlock." He said. He didn't move. John came around to the other side and realized Sherlock's hands were shaking, his eyes rolled back in his head so only the whites were showing, and he made a quiet choking noise as drool fell onto his pillow.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, reaching out to him lifting his neck onto his pillow in panic. He tested his pulse and ran to the hall, shouting,

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Call an ambulance!"

"An ambulance?"

"Now!" He rushed back into the room and tore back the blankets, pulling his drenched shirt off his torso and and ran to the freezer, searching for anything similar to an ice pack to press against his forehead. Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room, shouting,

"What's happened? John, what's happened? The ambulance is on their way!" All John could find in the freezer was a jar full of frozen something, and as his thoughts raced and adrenaline ran through him he barely heard her shout. As he finally reached the bedroom and pressed the jar to Sherlock's sweaty forehead he turned to Mrs. Hudson by his side, and with fear in his eyes he said

"He's finally done it."He paused, holding back tears,

"He's finally fucking overdosed."

The medics arrived a few minutes later, bursting into the room as John shouted,

"Get him up on a stretcher and prepare fluids as fast as you can. As fast as you can! He's having a seizure!" He helped lift Sherlock's dead weight from the bed onto the stretcher and bent down to feel his forehead yet again,

"Do you know what's happened?" The medic asked, securing straps around Sherlock's torso and tugging at the cords,

"He's overdosed on cocaine." John responded solemnly. The next few minutes were a blur, and despite John's significant ability to remain calm under pressure he couldn't recall a single thing that was said. Next thing he knew, he was sitting in the quiet ambulance listening to the cars rush by and looking down at Sherlock's pale face on the stretcher below him. He moved his head from side to side and mumbled incoherently and John didn't even engage him. Then suddenly his eyes shot open and he gasped. John jumped in his seat and held his arm to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock jolted and stared right at him, his pupils mere pinpoints in the fluorescent light.

"John." He croaked, his hand shaking and reaching up to meet John's on his shoulder. John didn't respond. He held tightly to Sherlock's hand and steadied his head from the bumps in the street. Sherlock's eyes shut again and his lips trembled,

"John," He said again, then mumbled,

"I love you." Before continuing with his inhuman murmurs. John froze. His mind spun and spun and then as worry built up in his throat he said,

"Goddamnit, Sherlock. If you kill yourself, "He sobbed,

"I'll bring you back and fucking kill you myself."

John sat in the hospital room throughout the night, listening to Sherlock's perpetual nonsense and restraining him when he tried to jump up. He had contacted Mycroft a few hours before, but he left him on read. He kept scrolling over the read receipt, knowing he was scrambling up some scheme. However exhausted and worried he was, the hospital felt like home. For the past two years he'd spent every weekday in its walls and however boring his hours may have been, it became a part of his life. It became his paradigm with Mary and the new life he had forged, but in some odd way it all seemed so bleak. Mrs. Hudson brought him a sandwich around midnight and held his head against her side as he shut his eyes and took a small moment to rest. It wasn't until after she had left that he finally realized he had never contacted Mary. He was surprised she hadn't bothered to contact him either. It was at times like this that he questioned their relationship and where it had lead since Sherlock's return. It wasn't like Sherlock was doing so great either, he thought, staring at the pale blue wall behind his hospital bed. In fact, he had only seen Sherlock go downhill since his wedding last summer. Living alone wasn't healthy for him, the more time he spent alone the further he spiraled into his own messy thoughts and unsteady tendencies. It was obvious to John that Sherlock had been increasing his doses since summertime and that despite attempts by himself, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to quell his ability to obtain drugs, he only grew more and more addicted. It came to a point where the four of them together couldn't conceive of a way to help him. "John." Said Sherlock, suddenly pushing himself up onto his elbow.

"Yes?" John hid his face in his hands.

"The neighbor wasn't the killer."

"No?"

"No. It was the landlord. Which is funny, I think."

"Hm."

"I have another case... " He trailed off. John pulled himself up from his chair and stood by the bedside table, watching the screen blink with Sherlock's vitals.

"Is Mary mad?" Sherlock's voice sounded like a child's, lost and searching for validation.

"Mad about what?" The clock ticked in the solemn room.

"Mad that you left her."

"I didn't leave her. She's at home, sleeping." Sherlock paused, staring at John in awe.

"But, but... you left me."

"I…" John looked around the room, unsure of what to say. His head ached. His mind was spinning with the myriad of half-truths Sherlock had sputtered and the trauma he had finally processed.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Come back. I need you to come back."

"Please just try to go to sleep Sherlock, your vitals are finally stable and I…"

"I need you to come back. Come back, John. Come back." He trailed off, his eyes glassy as he stared into the dim distance,

"I can't live without you."

John's phone buzzed and he woke with a start. The sun was rising pink and orange outside the window and the room was quiet as the beeps of Sherlock's vitals echoed in rhythm.

"Hello?" John answered groggily. Mycroft answered, his voice cool and measured as always,

"Come downstairs." John sighed and rubbed his eyes, dragging his feet out of the room and scanning the hall for a nurse to replace him. When he entered the first floor foyer, Mycroft stood against the frosted window and waited as John approached him.

"Fancy seeing you here." John remarked sarcastically,

"It only took you all night."

"I was on the plane when you texted."

"Ah." John rolled his eyes,

"Of course." Mycroft stared with a squint and pursed his lips.

"I have a proposal for you."

"Oh Christ, Mycroft."

"It's for the wellbeing of as all, John. Don't pretend you won't accept."

"I don't know what it is yet, so no, I do not accept…"

"It would give us all some peace of mind if you were to move back to Baker Street." Mycroft urged,

"No." John blurted,

"No, I will not be his babysitter."

"But he _needs_ a babysitter. Aren't you just dying for a case?" John sighed.

"But, Mary…"

"And when was the last time you truly cared about Mary?" Mycroft sneered. John stood frozen, his gaze on his feet.

"Don't play this game, Mycroft."

"I will never stop playing the game, John. The game is on, as always. And you have twenty-four hours to accept." Then he simply strided past John with a smug look on his face and started up the stairs to Sherlock's room.

"Goddamnit." John whispered, wringing his hands through his hair.

"Hello, dear!" Mary chimed,

"A long night at work?"

"No, no." He said anxiously, pacing around the room as he held his phone against his shoulder,

"I didn't work last night, Mary." He paused,

"I'm at the hospital with Sherlock." Mary gasped.

"I'm on my way."

"No." John interrupted,

"Listen, just… there's already enough going on here, I…"

"I'll be there in five." It was awful how much John regretted calling her. He didn't want her to come. It was already enough dealing with Mycroft and the nurses and Sherlock and everyone else and he didn't need her interjecting into something she never knew enough about….

"Well you've earned yourself three months of mandatory outpatient care to the mental institution, so you must be quite proud." Mycroft hissed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, unphased. When John entered the room a few moments later he followed his gaze until he came to the bedside. Sherlock expected him to say something, something witty, perhaps? Instead he stood, his arms crossed, next to Mycroft.

"Regardless, I hope you know we've been letting you get away with far too much." Mycroft said.

" _I understand,_ Mycroft, is that what you want me to say?"

"Sherlock." John said sternly,

"I would advise you to shut up." Sherlock glared back at him and opened his mouth to respond but simply crossed his arms instead.

"Mary is on her way." John turned to Mycroft before standing in the doorway anxiously, trying to suppress his memory of Sherlock's nonsense from the night before. It was difficult to tell which things he said were true; was it possible he would truly express an emotion as deep as love? Everything was messy. How would John explain to Mary that he wanted to move back in with Sherlock, after years? He knew he had no other option. On top of Mycroft's pressure and his worries for Sherlock, he so desperately wanted to. Baker Street felt like home, and even after so long the flat was just the same as when he first moved in.

Mary arrived a few moments later, rushing to the door and greeting John briefly before hurrying to Sherlock's bedside.

"Oh, Sherlock…" She sighed,

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock snickered,

"I don't want your pity. In fact, now that you mention it, is there any way one of you three geniuses can get me the hell out of here?"

"No!" Mycroft and Mary said in unison.

"Actually," John chimed,

"I'd love to get out of here." Mary began to protest and John, with pure exhaustion in his eyes, pressed his hand against his forehead and pleaded,

"I haven't had a bite to eat and I haven't slept in over twenty four hours and I would really, _really_ like to put everyone out of their misery and get Sherlock back home. He's recovering. It's fine. There's nothing more that can really be done regardless." He left and began chattering with the other doctors to prepare Sherlock's release.

When they returned to Baker Street and everyone had gone, Sherlock paused and peered over at John in the sitting room.

"John." He said. John turned to him and giving him a stern

"What?" Sherlock sighed, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

"I..." He froze.

"I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ," John stuttered, emotion welling up in his throat,

"Come here." He threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him tightly. Sherlock lowered his head into the crook of John's neck and sniffled as tears welled up in his eyes. Suddenly he felt so guilty, and though he would never admit it, he was relieved to have survived. It only took a few short moments for John to notice Sherlock's hot tears against his neck. This wasn't like him - crying, apologizing, vulnerability. He froze, not knowing what to do.

"Listen, Sherlock." He started,

"I don't know how to help you, but I… Mycroft asked if I…"

"Mycroft can fuck off"

"He had a valid point, though… He asked me to move back in to Baker Street. In fact, he required it."

"Hm." Sherlock sighed and stepped away from John, surveying the room.

"That's not the worst of his demands." He smirked.

"Don't get any funny ideas," John cut him off,

"I still haven't made up my mind, with Mary and all…" Sherlock stepped an inch closer,

"Oh please, Doctor Watson…

Let me convince you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Alright, fine." John stuttered,

"Convince me." Sherlock turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets and gazing out the window.  
"Isn't life with Mary so _boring_?" He began.

"I'm not going to debate that, Sherlock, it's different." Sherlock stepped forward again towards John, closer to his face than before.

"Different? Don't you just love domesticity? Quiet, uneventful, happy. Perhaps that's why you drink so much whiskey." He stepped away again. John stayed put, crossing his arms.

"It is a bit boring, but you would never understand."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"You've never been in _love_ you don't have the tiniest inkling of an idea…" Suddenly Sherlock was centimeters from John's face, their noses almost meeting as he looked John in the eyes.

"Haven't I?" He stayed for a moment and stepped away again to fill the silence.

"It's beyond the point. Everyone's worried about you."

"Everyone? Who's everyone? Let me count… you and you

And you

And you…"

"I'm not the only person that cares about you."

"No. No, you're not. But you are my only friend."

"I'm not moving back in." Sherlock stepped close once again, this time tilting his head and whispering as his lips wavered ever closer to John's.

"Consider it." He swept off and slammed his bedroom door, leaving John standing shaken in the sitting room.

"Mary." John sighed, lying in bed that night,

"I'm moving back to Baker Street." Mary rolled over to face him,

"Alright." John paused.

"Really? I don't want to leave you here alone, it's not that I…"

"Your best friend just overdosed on cocaine. Honestly, I'd think less of you if you _didn't_ want to move back in with him." She said.

"He needs you more than I do."

When John came to the door with his boxes, Sherlock was wandering about the sitting room literally moaning while spinning in disoriented circles.

"What the hell is going on?" John said, slamming his boxes to the ground at the foot of the stairwell.

"Bored."

"Well if you're so bored why don't you make yourself useful and help me move these boxes." Surprisingly, Sherlock shrugged and quickly obliged, streamlining a process John had expected to take hours. They ran back and forth as Sherlock sprinted up the stairs two by two and tore everything out of the boxes into John's bedroom, spreading things about and making a bit of a mess in the process.

The following evening, once John had unpacked the majority of his belongings into the familiar nook upstairs, he reunited with Sherlock in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, which Mrs. Hudson had so graciously given him as a "welcome home" gift. Sherlock peered back and forth between John and his microscope before settling his gaze on John. "I haven't got a case at the moment, John." He sighed, maintaining his stare.

"I figured as such. What is it you're looking at then?"

"Poison." He squinted as he tried to read John's expression.

"Would you quit that?"

"Quit what?"

"The face. You're looking at me with a face…"

"I'm not looking at you." He continued to stare.

"Right. And I'm not standing in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street." Sherlock rose slowly from his seat at the counter and wandered into the sitting room towards the mantle, pulling a cigarette from his underneath the skull and promptly lighting it before turning back to John. He continued to stare in silence, knowing his uncomfortable ogling and cigarette smoke would piss John off soon enough.

"Part of why I'm here is to stop you from doing that." John said, gesturing towards the cigarette dangling from Sherlocks long fingers.

"That's not why you're here." Sherlock plopped into his chair and began to grin.

"It's not? Well then, why don't you make a deduction as to why I am?"

"Alright," Sherlock shrugged,

"Come sit." He motioned to the client's chair.

"In the client's' chair?"

"Of course in the client's' chair." John rolled his eyes and obliged. Sherlock smirked and stood over him the moment he sat down, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

"Now, Doctor Watson..." He began,

"Present your case." John crossed his arms in contempt.

"A certain Sherlock Holmes told me I wasn't here to cut his drug habit. And cigarette and caffeine and alcohol habit. And perhaps his insomnia…"

"Ah, yes, well that is part of it. You do realize you have very little control over that?"

"I have control over what comes in and out of this flat."

"No, you don't. No, what i see is a man who doesn't care to admit to himself how bored he is with married life. A man searching for an out with which to escape the daily grind; precisely the John Watson who came to Baker Street in the first place. Searching for an adventure, craving another war. You lied the other night when you said you wouldn't move in, and it's not because Mycroft pressured you, no, it's because you enjoy the thrill. You love playing doctor and tugging my sleeves to make sure I'm not using, you can't get enough of the endless cases and swirling insanity… But then again neither can I. Admit it, John, you can't escape me. You don't _want_ to escape me, and that is precisely the reason you're here tonight. In fact, forget escaping me, you're running from Mary back to the comfort of your precious sociopath and let me tell you..." Sherlock sneered, leaning in to John's ear from behind,

"I will not disappoint." John shook his head and chuckled,

"You're wrong." Sherlock wandered to the window,

"Am I now?"

"Yes, it's all wrong, Sherlock, I'm not running to or from anything."

"Hm." Sherlock flicked his cigarette.

"Prove it." John scoffed,

"How bloody difficult do you have to be?"

"Quite."

"And how exactly would you like me to prove it?"

"You can't." Sherlock lingered towards John wants again.

"But I can prove you wrong." He stepped closer.

"Fine, prove me wrong." Sherlock laughed,

"Oh, it's too easy."

"I'm not playing this game…"

"Kiss me, John." John froze,

" _Excuse me, what?_ "

"Kiss me, on the face, or anywhere, really, I suppose…"

"I don't know what this is, but it isn't funny." John squirmed away from Sherlock's imposing figure,

"It's not a game, John. And you're blushing."

"What do you mean it's not a game? I'm not blushing! What is this, Sherlock? For the last time, I'm not gay if that's what you want to know." John's words jumbled into a frazzled mess.

"Oh, for God's sake." Suddenly Sherlock stepped forward and pulled John towards him by his collar, swooping his hand around to the small of his back and tugging him into a kiss in a passionate frenzy. He half expected John to pull away, but per his deductions he melted into his arms and kissed him back, a little reluctantly, before pulling away ever slightly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead leaned back in and kissed Sherlock again, burying his fingers in his matted curls.

"I told you," Sherlock whispered, his breath warm against John's neck,

"I'm never wrong."

The next morning before leaving his room, John decided he needed to say something to Sherlock about the previous night. He sighed and pulled on his robe, mulling over his words in his head and mumbling,

"Sherlock…" as he entered the kitchen. Sherlock stood, smiling giddily next to the coffee maker.

"About last night…"

"Ah, yes, John." Sherlock sipped his coffee,

"I know. It was only a kiss. You're not gay, blah, blah, blah. But we all make exceptions." John froze in his tracks.

"That's not what I was going to say, but…"

"But I'm right?"

"Can you shut up, for one moment?" Sherlock obliged.

"As I was saying," He cleared his throat,

"You…" He paused, searching for the right words.

"You are…" He stuttered,

"God damn it. You know what? Fine. Fine, you're right! You're right! You're always fucking right! Sherlock Holmes calls it, once again! Just know that if people start talking, I will… And you better get off the damn cocaine, and…" He hid his face in his hand,

"And for the love of God don't mention it to Mary."

"She'll find out." Sherlock said, undoubtedly,

"She's not dense."

"Yes, well…" John turned away,

" _Fuck."_


	3. Chapter 3

"I love winter," Sherlock sighed as he burst out the door of Baker Street. John gaped at him and chuckled,

"Really?"

"Yes, really, why is it so funny?" Sherlock began walking faster.

"Well," John panted, struggling to keep up, "I didn't know you had an affinity for… anything really. But evidently you have a favorite season."

"Of course I have a favorite season, do you know how much easier it is to track footprints in fresh snow than in soil? Not to mention how telling the dirt found in snow can be!"

"I thought perhaps it was because the snowfall is pathetically romantic yet cold, like you."

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock blushed and popped his collar against the wind. They had recently embarked on a "thrilling new quest," as Sherlock had coined it, that in reality was just another case. It was bad timing, John thought, since he had been contemplating a way to ask Sherlock about their relationship. It was an impossible task. Each time he attempted to bring it up, Sherlock gave short answers or explained to John that he was "too exhaustingly busy" to discuss such trivial things. However, John knew he could convince Sherlock to discuss it, eventually. The most devious way he had tried was by posting embarrassing remarks on his blog. Sherlock kept tabs on what was written about him, and by inserting gushy romantic bullshit into his blog posts, John knew it wasn't long before he would notice and consequently complain. Or perhaps he could mention it here, now, on the way to Scotland Yard? He glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed in thought, and remembered it was a terrible idea.

As they arrived at Scotland Yard it began snowing much harder, and John couldn't help but notice how the snowflakes stuck in Sherlock's curls. He was quite sure Sherlock was talking to him. It wasn't unusual; John didn't listen.

"John Hamish Watson!" Sherlock shouted,

" _A man is dead and you are staring at the snowflakes in my hair."_ Sherlock hissed, rushing inside. John rolled his eyes and followed.

Near the end of the day, they stopped at a coffee shop to pick up Sherlock's triple espresso and prepare to work through the night. As they sat sipping their drinks, John mustered the courage to ask,  
"So, Sherlock…"

"Yes…" Sherlock hummed.

"Are we boyfriends?" Sherlock nearly choked on his coffee before slamming it down on table a little harder than he expected. Then, without pausing, blurted

"We've been boyfriends since 2010, John, are you just now grasping this?" John's jaw dropped. He sat, motionless, before he shook his head in awe,

"We have not… why do you think we've been… hold on, wait a minute. Wait a minute. You think… You think we've been together since, _since we met?_ "

"Well, no," Sherlock shrugged,

"Not since we met, but from my understanding of what boyfriends are, I thought…"

"Stop. Just stop, is this some kind of joke?" John crossed his arms and Sherlock noticed a twitch in his eye. He hid his face behind his mug, sipping faster as he prepared for John to berate him.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," He began to drum his fingers against the table,

"For once in your life can you respond seriously to my questions?"

"Fine," Sherlock faked a cough and realized he was tapping his foot against his chair in anxiety,

"My serious answer is yes." He scanned John's face for any sign of positive emotion. Happiness? Relief? Excitement, maybe? For a moment he froze and couldn't extract anything.

"Alright, fine." John sputtered.

"Then we need to have a talk."

"We're having a talk right now, aren't we?"

"No, Sherlock, a serious talk," he insisted,

"A private talk. Because I have a wife to account for and on top of it a hell of a lot of questions." His voice wavered. Sherlock nodded decisively, deducing that John was incredibly conflicted. In love, maybe, but mostly confused, unsure of where to go next, and a little frustrated. Suddenly, he realized the next move was his.

"Back to work?" he chided.

"Absolutely."

"RUN!" Sherlock shouted, scrambling to grab his gun from his coat pocket. John rounded the corner as fast as he could before spotting the mess and dashing the other way. Before long, Sherlock was running beside him, panting,

"This way, no, no, no, FASTER…"

"I am running as fast as I can!" John bellowed,

"Where are we going?"

"Away!" He heard gunshots behind them. Suddenly, he stopped, peeking around the rigid brick and turning to John, his face too close for comfort.

"In forty seconds another shot is going to be fired and when you hear that shot I want you to get into that cab there -"

"Which cab?"

"- _That_ one and I want you to go directly back to Baker Street and call Mary."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving you in danger…"

"I have it handled, John, just _go_ and tell Mary to come at once." The gunshot echoed through the alley and John ran on instinct to the cab, following Sherlock's directions. He watched Sherlock fire back and yell something inaudible as he instructed the driver and sped away.

Within an hour, Sherlock burst into the flat, smiling smugly and tossing his gloves onto the end table.

"Case closed!" He gested. John immediately noticed the blood on his forehead and wrists and saw the dazed look in his eyes, but failed to interject before Mary.

"Now what's all this about?" She asked, slyly.

"Well," Sherlock began, peeling off his scarf in a purposely seductive manner,

"Originally, I was going to ask John's personal assassin to help with my case, but it turns out I have solved it myself."

"Ah!" Mary smiled, before her face dropped and she set her hands on her hips.

"Then why am I still here?" Sherlock looked up at her with a jolt, still winded. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought this far. He had a plan… what was his initial plan? The thrill of the chase had knocked it out of him. _Damn_. This wasn't the first time his mind had slipped, but it needed to be the last. What kind of loser…?

"Ehem - Sherlock? Are you alright?" John inquired.

"Fine, fine…" Sherlock muttered, before dropping to the floor at John's feet, his vision going blurry. "Actually, quite not fine, can you… can you… figure out…" He was abruptly unconscious, drooping onto the wooden floor and loosening his grip on John's ankle.

"Jesus Christ," John dropped quickly to take his pulse.

"Mary, help me get him to bed," He pleaded,

"He's been drugged, again, I don't know what with, but…"

"Well you're a doctor, isn't it your job to know?"

"I don't know _yet_ , alright? Now, I can't lift him…"

"John! John! Where the fuck is it?" Sherlock woke with an aggressive start, his mind buzzing.

"Jesus fucking fuck John, fuck," John came in, finding Sherlock scrambling on the bedroom floor, and sighed.

"What now?"

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The stuff! The stuff the drugs the good shit the…"

"Okay, nope, back to bed." John scolded, leading Sherlock back over to his mattress. The moment he set him down, he rolled off again, and continued yelling "fuck" over and over,

"Sherlock Holmes!" John demanded,

"Shut up and get back in that bed _right now_ or so help me God." Grinning, Sherlock rolled over to face John and asked giddily,

"Is that an order, captain?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock sat, legs crossed, atop the bed.

"I said," He pulled John closer by the hand, flirtatiously entangling his legs around John's waist.

"Is that an order, _captain_?" Swiftly, he tugged John on top of him and giggled obnoxiously, attempting to unbutton his shirt. He barely undid a single button before John pushed him off and left, slamming the door behind him and murmuring something about "unacceptable" and "cocaine again." Sherlock stayed with his legs dangling to the ground and moaned audibly, staring into the distance in his drug-induced euphoria. It really was such a gorgeous day, look at the snow! How boring.

"Oh, there he is." John said, glaring from the sofa next to Mary. Sherlock furrowed his brows and adjusted his lapels, sniffing the air to prove his composure. He was prepared to take any criticism John threw at him.

"Sit." Ordered John, motioning to the clients' chair.

"Ah," Sherlock mocked,

"Using my own methods against me?" John only scowled in response. Sherlock began to shift uncomfortably in his seat, sensing the disappointment in John's face.

"This isn't a game, Sherlock. Are you ready to take this seriously or should I wait?"

"You don't need to talk to me like a child." Sherlock spat.

"Apparently I do. I'll ask again. Are you ready to be serious, or should I wait?"

"Serious."

"Alright," John stood and began pacing about the room, visibly irritated.

"You weren't accidentally drugged on the case, am I wrong?" Sherlock paused, before clearing his throat and answering nervously,

"Not wrong."  
"Right, good. So at precisely what time were you shooting cocaine behind my back today?"

"What _times_?" Sherlock corrected, watching John's glare deepen. Guilt rose in his chest.

"What... times?"

"This morning, after breakfast. And again at the coffee shop, in the bathroom. You're not very observant." John stepped closer, crossing his arms.

"Cut the sass." He demanded.

"So you're telling me it's been all day?" Sherlock nodded.

"And I'm assuming you increased your dosage, judging from the episode we just experienced…" He nodded again, hanging his head. He realized John was smiling and gawking at the floor. It truly scared him when John began to smile like this. It was a specifically angry smile, a face he only made when he was so angry he could no longer contain himself. Sherlock was slightly terrified.

"Give me your arms." John ordered. Sherlock kept his head down and held out his arm. Despite his rage, John rolled Sherlock sleeves gently, skimming his thumb over his skin as he examined his blemishes and blue veins. Sherlock's skin crawled with both guilt and excitement at John's touch.

"I don't know how to help you anymore, Sherlock. I don't know what leads you to this. I understand addiction but what I don't understand is _why_? Why do this in the first place, Sherlock? What lead you on to it? Do you just get so bloody bored you can't contain yourself any longer? What is it?" He paused. Mary rose from the sofa, grabbed John's arm, and began to interject, but he abruptly stopped her.

"I can't help you." His voice cracked. For a moment, the three stood silently.

"Mary," Sherlock began, looking up at her with bloodshot eyes,

"Can I please talk to John… Alone? Please? It's…"

"Yes. Yes, Sherlock, of course. Anything you need, I… I'll be outside." She patted his shoulder gently and glanced apologetically at John before stepping out.

"John…" Sherlock whimpered,

"I'm… I'm going to tell you something, but please... please don't make any snap judgments, you won't understand, but…" John knelt down and put his hand to Sherlock's knee.

"You can tell me."

"So, originally," He stuttered,

"Originally it was exactly what you think. Years ago. I get bored. I lose my mind when there's not something exciting every minute of every day and I couldn't find ways to pass the time. Violin, experiments, games, television, books, new adventures… It was never enough. Never. Frankly, it still isn't, but anyway, that's how it started. I was bored. But then, then I was fine for… I don't know… A while, I guess, sober, but…. And you came into my life, John. You. You are the most… The most incredible thing, well, no, not… You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Then when I lost you… Christ, I need to shut up, sentiment got to me and I…"

"The last thing you need to do is shut up."

"But, _feelings,_ John." Sherlock hissed.

"No, continue."

"Fine. You went off, and well. I don't know. My point is you can help me. I think. I don't know, I'm still a little high if you can't tell…"

"Finish the story."

"You married Mary. You chose Mary over me, John. You chose _her_. I… I couldn't cope, can't cope, still… I suppose now that's why it's such a bloody addiction, okay, it's not some genius shit, frankly, it's… well, caring definitely is not an advantage." Sherlock was nearly crying, his voice quavering with every pause. John sat stunned, trying to process the entirety of Sherlock's story.

"Is that all true?" He asked,

"Every word." Their eyes locked.

"Listen," The anger had left John's face. What was left was sorrow. True sorrow, and guilt. John didn't get a chance to tell Sherlock how sorry he was. How much he regretted his decision to get married. How on earth would he explain what it felt like to suddenly have Sherlock thrown back into his life? He had been missing for two years, and it came to a point where John felt he had no choice but to choose Mary over Sherlock. He wanted to tell him he had been dense and stupid. He wanted to tell him he could help. He would help. That he would dedicate every waking moment to his well-being and happiness and get him back on track. He wanted to tell him he actually liked his audacious flirtation while he was high, and that he knew it came from a genuine place. He wanted to joke, tell him to admit it, that being "married to his work" had been a facade, an excuse to avoid telling people he was gay. There were so many words left floating unsaid, so many things he wanted to explain, but most of all he wanted to stop right there, pick him up in his arms, and kiss him. To kiss him gently, hold him, and whisper that he was sorry, that it was okay, and that nothing in the world would make him think less of him. Instead, he stated factly,

"It's okay. You're alright. We'll talk more later, okay?" Sherlock nodded.

"Let me go home with Mary, and I'll be back tonight." He watched them leave and listened for the door to shut downstairs before breaking down into his own lap in sheer desperation.


	4. Chapter 4

When John returned, the flat was eerily calm. The fireplace was lit, illuminating Sherlock's hunched figure sitting in the corner, with only the quiet _pluck, pluck_ of tuning strings disturbing the peace. Even after years living with Sherlock Holmes, John was baffled by his many dichotomies. Somehow he was utterly destitute and warm simultaneously. He had transitioned so quickly from the events of that afternoon to such a melancholy softness; it was as if nothing was amiss at all. He approached him slowly, hesitating before resting his hand on his shoulder and sitting beside him. Sherlock continued fidgeting with his violin, his long fingers carefully winding the string on its peg and plucking before adjusting again. He didn't break focus until John's hand reached the small of his back and he inhaled deeply before looking over at him. His eyes were bloodshot and glossy as the fire twinkled inside them. John noticed his lip quiver and behind his stone cold expression could see absolute anguish. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock had been crying. For a moment he paused, wracking his brain for the right words, but nothing he said would be genuine enough, acute enough, or kind enough. He lifted his hand to Sherlock's jaw, running his thumb down to his chin and watching the tiny shift in his expression as he leaned closer. Just before their lips met, he let out the slightest gasp and lifted his chin to meet him. He set his violin aside gently on the floor without breaking their kiss and promptly slid his fingers to the back of John's neck, pulling him closer. Before long, John was nearly on top of him on the wooden floor, their limbs entangled as Sherlock's grip tightened in desperation. Suddenly, he pulled away.

"John," He quavered,

"You… You don't have to do this. Also, we should probably move out of this corner."

"I don't have to do what?" John inquired, unwavering.

" _This_. When I said you chose Mary over me I didn't mean you had to… You don't have to…"

"Sherlock," John stuttered, standing up and reaching his hand out,

"I think you're misunderstanding me." Sherlock took his hand and stood.

"I never do anything for you out of pity, you do know that, right? If I took pity on you I wouldn't be here."  
"I never asked you to pity me."

"No, you didn't. You also haven't forced me to do anything I don't want to. Except maybe get shot at a couple times, and drag you out of lawsuits, and… my point is... I'm here because I want to be." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, processing John's words with a wispy

"Oh."

"I choose _you_ , Sherlock. You're right. It's always been you." Sherlock stood awestruck, his brows furrowed as he stared down at the floor in thought.

"Now," John interrupted,

"Either we can take this to bed or I can leave you to your thoughts. Which will it be?" Sherlock slowly raised his gaze with a smirk and looked John up and down.

"You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious," He said, running his fingers down Sherlock's back, "So which will it be?" Sherlock responded simply with a kiss, leaning in as close as he could to John and taking his hand. The two staggered down the hallway together, limbs intertwining, until finally John threw Sherlock onto bed in a passionate frenzy and snickered. He crawled on top of him, his fingers buried deep in his curls, and let out a low sigh. His heart pounded in his chest as Sherlock tugged at his sweater and panted, eventually pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. He leaned in closer, leaving as little space as possible between their figures. He was impatient, desperate: it was everything he wanted and more.

Later, against the warmth of John's bare chest in the dead of night, Sherlock murmured,

"I have waited so, _so_ long for this."


	5. Chapter 5

At the earliest sign of dawn, John was awake. Despite the pink glow of the sky and the warmth of his flatmate beside him with their tangle of blankets, he felt uneasy. It was typical for nightmares to shake him awake, but this time he couldn't remember a single detail from his dream. For a moment he laid silently, listening to Sherlock's even breathing and noting elements of the room. He had been in Sherlock's bedroom before, but something seemed different each time he came in. Even familiar items looked abnormal in the morning light. The hanging form of Sherlock's coat against the door, scattered books and papers on the dresser, the old Victorian lampshade, even the exquisitely organized catalog of shirts in the closet. He sighed and curled up against Sherlock's back, contemplating his detailed plan to sober him up, but he couldn't focus. The thought of Mary at home alone, unaware of his escapades with Sherlock, continued to haunt him. He knew he would need to discuss it with her eventually, regardless of his fears. Their relationship had continued to deteriorate as he realized his love for Sherlock; they fought constantly. The bickering every time John returned home became a burden, and he was tired of living between two flats. Once he left the bed, everything would change. He would monitor Sherlock's usage, console him, and keep him busy. He would continue being cordial with Mary. There would be more cases to embark on. He would need to address the nuances of his relationship and navigate the many difficulties involving Sherlock. His mind continued to spin with questions and the myriad of things he never got around to asking. He crawled out of bed despite it all, put on Sherlock's dressing gown, and went to make coffee. When he reached the kitchen he was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson pouring tea at the table.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaimed,

"What are you doing here?"

"I bring tea every morning." She smirked,

"You know that." John cleared his throat and pulled the dressing gown to cover his bare chest.

"Ah, yes." He said.

"Thank you." Mrs. Hudson laughed, setting the teapot on the table,

"There's no need to be embarrassed, dear. It's been a long time coming." She winked and promptly left. John stood, shocked for a moment, then sat at the table where she had stood and began to sip the tea she had poured. For a while he sat quietly, listening to the creaks of the house and the bustle of the street outside. He began reading the newspaper that had been strewn across the table, and before long, Sherlock came up behind him, gently kissing his cheek.

"Good morning." He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. John reached up and held his hand against Sherlock's soft curls,

"Morning, Sherlock." He said,

"Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Mm, yes," Sherlock replied, coming around to the other side of the table. As he reached for the teapot John noticed his utter absence of clothes, replaced simply by a poorly draped sheet. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time. He poured his tea and sat down across from John, proceeding to stare at him with a quirky smile.

"So is it time for you to officially move into my bedroom? Because I thought…"

"You have to answer my questions first," John stated,

"No more avoiding it." Sherlock glared in response before turning to the refrigerator and suddenly becoming very interested in choosing his breakfast.

"I'm serious…" John said, smiling. Without warning, Sherlock was leaning over him, his sheet draping over John's chair as he held his face in his hand and kissed him as hard as he could. He pulled away briefly and whispered,

"No," before running his index finger down John's chest and wrapping his leg around his waist.

"Will you make me breakfast?"

"Not until you answer my questions," John said snarkily, trying as hard as possible to ignore the feeling in his gut as Sherlock's fingers traced to his hips.

"No," Sherlock repeated, groaning dramatically and pulling away,

"I wouldn't last night and I won't now."

"Fine. Then no breakfast."

" _Fine,"_ Sherlock pouted,

"But I don't see why you need to know about my sex life. Up until last night, you didn't even think I _had_ one, so I don't see why you needed to kill the mood and ask…"

"Did you have sex with Irene Adler?"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock hissed,

" _Now leave me alone."_ John's jaw dropped. All of a sudden he had discovered a completely new side of Sherlock that he had never suspected before. He always assumed Sherlock was asexual, or at least highly repressed, until the risk he took last night. He was surprised by his response and it led to one question after another. Not only was Sherlock entirely willing, but he was _experienced._ It was like nothing John had ever felt before. He remained incredibly private about it all, despite their new relationship status. John watched as he turned back to the fridge and grabbed a yogurt before striding across the room and plopping into his chair. He made absolutely no attempt at modesty as he lounged mostly naked and licked his spoon.

"Why are you so bloody insistent?" He asked. John furrowed his brow and set his mug on the table,

"Insistent? I barely said anything."

"Yes, but you thought it." He glared. Once he had finished his yogurt and tossed the packaging aside he silently strolled back into the bedroom. John ignored him for the time being, finishing his tea and enjoying the quiet. When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock appeared from nowhere and pinned him against the wall.

"Take me back to bed, Doctor Watson." He ordered. John rolled his eyes and shuddered under Sherlock's grip,

"Is this how it's going to be now? You and I?"

"Not always," Sherlock hummed,

"But at the moment I'm not on the case and am trying _very_ hard to ignore the withdrawal headache from which I seem to be suffering. I believe you can help." John sighed, his breath warm against Sherlock's neck,

"Damn you."

That afternoon, a new client arrived and within minutes Sherlock reverted to his usual, calculating self. He was on the case again, and John figured it would be several days before they had another truly romantic interaction. Despite this, Sherlock continued glancing at John as he worked, smiling slightly with a curl of his lip. By the end of the evening, they were engaged in quite the chase, racing across London to find one mangled corpse after another. The calls came in each hour, on the hour. Sherlock became intensely focused in between scattered calls and text messages, ignoring John's murmurs and tapping his fingertips anxiously. Eventually, he stopped completely and shut his eyes, placing his index finger to his lip to shush him. John had been on enough cases with Sherlock to know this was exceedingly typical and took no offense. Instead, he took the opportunity acquire coffee for the both of them. As he approached the coffee shop down the road, he noticed someone following him. It didn't take long for him to realize who it was: another one of Mycroft's cronies.

 _Damn_ , he thought, _It's really not the time_.

But as always, he went along, finding Mycroft seated in the corner of the coffee shop with his artificially sweetened latte.

"Evening, Mike." He called. Mycroft glared,

"Doctor Watson…" He gestured for John to sit down before resting his hands underneath his chin, the same way Sherlock did.

"I see you're enjoying your stay at Baker Street." John rolled his eyes and inquired,

"And why do you ask?"

"No reason," Mycroft began,

"Save for the fact your wife has gone missing and that entering a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes has been, historically, highly dangerous."

"Mary's gone missing?" John exclaimed, barely missing a beat. Mycroft sneered,

"Yes, but we know where she is. She left you a note."

"Where is she? Where's the note?" Mycroft handed him a folded piece of notebook paper, simply labeled _John_ with the ink bleeding through.

"This is confidential information and I suggest you treat it as such. Your wife is not a commoner, John. In a while, she may not even be your wife…"

"Thank you, Mycroft. Will that be all?" Mycroft sighed,

"You would be wise to address your relationship with Sherlock, which, from my understanding…"

"Is none of your bloody business. Have a good night, Mycroft!" John chided, hurrying out of the cafe. He found Sherlock exactly where he had left him in the laboratory and came in to lean against the counter beside him.

"No coffee?" Sherlock asked, not budging.

"Shit," John said, "Forgot." He turned Mary's letter over in his hand and pondered it for a moment.

"Did you know about this?" He asked, accusingly.

"Know about what?"

"About Mary, did you know she had left the country?"

"You haven't read the letter, how do you know she left the country?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at John.

"Oh, so you did know! Goddamn it, Sherlock…"

"I suggest reading it." Sherlock interrupted, whipping around to pull his specimen from the refrigerator across the room. John leaned against the cold black countertop and pressed his fingers against his brow in apprehension.

"I'm not sure if I can." His voice echoed with the silver tiles of the laboratory and the room fell silent. Sherlock resorted to staring into his microscope sullenly, awaiting John's response.

"I can tell you what it says." He offered. John scoffed,

"Don't bring yourself into this." His footsteps clacked on the linoleum as he paced about, contemplating the letter's many unknown possibilities. He turned it over in his hands, running his fingers across the lined page, the brittle stationary. Conflict rested in his chest as his head spun with emotion. He wanted nothing more than to be with Sherlock, but he still could not deny his love for Mary. To find her suddenly missing, absent from his life without warning was a shock he had not anticipated. He continued to worry for her safety; perhaps her past had finally caught up with her, perhaps she had simply left him without remorse.

"You wouldn't have to worry if you would just read it," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. He glanced up from his microscope,

"I promise you." John sighed and slowly unfolded the note. He noticed Sherlock perk up behind him, attempting to discreetly raise his gaze towards John and catch his reaction. Sherlock glanced away as soon as John's eyes grazed his and pretended to return to his work. Something deep in his gut was worried John would suddenly want to leave again, revert to the life he enjoyed without him. There was a constant nagging in the back of his mind reminding him of his inadequacy, and along with it a contradictory conscious telling him his worries were illogical, irrational, and useless. He bit his lip and waited.

 _John,_ it read,

 _I'm not going to burden you with the tales of my past, so here are the facts of the matter: I am leaving. I'll be hiding out, for a while. I would tell you where, but that would compromise both my safety and yours. I'm not in your best interest, John. I never will be._

 _All my love,_

 _Mary._

John sighed and set the note on the counter. To be frank, he wasn't quite surprised to hear of Mary's disappearance, nor was he devastated. At the same time, he cared. He cared so deeply for her and he wished he had known he'd never see her again. Maybe he would. Maybe, she'd come back. _No_ , he thought, _I don't want that_. He noticed Sherlock's penetrating stare and brushed him off, heading out to the vending machine. He didn't necessarily know what to do, but he definitely was going to eat chocolate. The door slammed open while he inserted his cash and suddenly Sherlock was running down the hallway of the hospital, his coat in hand. _What a fucking drama queen._ John had no choice but to follow.

"You're not bothered in the least by the fact your wife has disappeared," Sherlock stated factly, observing John beside him against the sleek black of the cab.

"I wouldn't say that's necessarily the case. I'm still processing it."

"Mm." Sherlock looked out the window,

"You don't care." He sounded proud of himself as if he wanted John to be removed from the situation and was giddy with himself for being absolutely right, again, as always.

"I do care, actually." He crossed his arms and sighed,

"Contrary to your belief, it is a bit of a shock to me."

"A shock, maybe, but something you distanced yourself from months ago. It doesn't matter now."

"I don't need your psychoanalysis." John snapped, looking away from him.

"Aren't you glad she's gone, though?"

"Sherlock." There was a fiery look in John's eyes, a threat. He still had feelings for her. _Fuck._

"Okay. Fine." Sherlock conceded, shoving his hands in his pockets. They sat out the rest of the ride in silence, but before getting out of the car at the scene of their next clue, John tugged at Sherlock's sleeve and turned to him,

"I don't want to hear another word of this while we're on the case, do you hear me?" His voice was stern. Sherlock nodded and tilted his head, reading John's expression. He paused for a moment, taking him in, before escaping the cab and heading into the cold, grey dusk. The thought of another somewhat droning case of serial poisons was simply _riveting_. Despite his silent sarcasm, John wanted nothing more.

Upon a late return to Baker Street, John crawled into bed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, sighing quietly as he leaned against his shoulder. He breathed in Sherlock's familiar scent coffee, chemicals, and fresh detergent. The silent calm of the room seemed eerie after the stress of the afternoon, and he felt his heartbeat heavy in his chest. Sherlock turned around to face John, holding him tightly and kissing his neck. He curled up against his warmth and rested his hand on the small of his back. For a bit he simply listened to the sound of his breath against the comforter, enjoying the rare, momentary silence inside his head and collapsing into bliss.

"Sherlock," John began, breaking the peace,

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, exhaling into John's shoulder,

"Another one?"

"Yes," John chuckled,

"Just one more, for now." He ran his fingers gently over his back and hesitated slightly,

"Spit it out," Sherlock whispered jokingly.

"The scars on your back…" John began,

"How did you get the scars on your back?" Sherlock hummed and rested his head against his arm.

"Serbia," He stated. Immediately he realized that John was dissatisfied with his answer.

"Last year, before I came back. I tore down the entirety of Moriarty's network in the span of two years and I daresay it wasn't an easy task." He stretched out on his side of the bed and moaned dramatically before continuing,

"I found myself deep in rural Serbia in a prisoner of war camp, which was more or less a neo-Nazi hub headed entirely by Moriarty cohorts. And let's just say murderous neo-Nazis don't take mercy in the realm of torture." His statement was casual as ever as if he hadn't a care in the world about the endless hours of beatings and starvation he endured in order to save the thousands of lives under Moriarty's threat. John opened and shut his mouth in response.

"That wasn't the worst of it," Sherlock mumbled. John was unsure what to say. It was nary the first time he had caught Sherlock in a moment of weakness; quiet, a melancholy gaze in his eyes. He realized he knew so little of Sherlock's past. Despite their many years together, he had inquired so seldom about his life outside Baker Street. He had never asked about the two years he spent pretending to be dead. Never made an effort to understand the details of his childhood and the roots of his insecurities. He understood what bothered him, he knew how to hurt him, if he wanted. There were many ways to provoke the pressure points of Sherlock Holmes. He was certain of his intelligence but would silently falter under the bullying of others. In a way, he was unsure of the very facade of inhumanity he had created on his own accord. At any moment, John could break him. He could walk out without explanation or tear down his ego, he could bring out the worst in him or kickstart an infinite deleterious spiral in his health.

 _But I would never._

"Sherlock," he broke the silence,

"You're okay, right?" Sherlock looked surprised by John's question, then uncertain of his answer.

"Okay, how?"

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." He was lying through his teeth.

"You're not, though, are you?" He dropped his gaze, turning over his possible replies. He wanted to be fine. In fact, he was getting closer to being fine already. John's absence had thrown him into a fit of depression and drug-induced rage. He had expected his return to Baker Street to solve everything, immediately, but soon discovered he was wrong. Regardless of his improving mental state, he was physically dependent on cocaine and had no control over his addiction. But being with John made everything better, changed his entire life for the better in a way he couldn't explain. John was his everything. He wasn't fine, but he didn't want John to think it was because of him. It was because of him, originally, but it wasn't anymore. Now, it was a matter of overcoming an addiction and pulling himself out of the pit he had dug for himself during the past three years. The last thing he wanted was pity...

"No," He said,

"I need your help, John. I need you." John laid frozen, prompting Sherlock to continue,

"Without you, I'm nothing but a junkie detective with a big brain and a lack of company. I've got a steady addiction for the second time this decade and I don't know how to cope without you here. I never _ever_ wanted to force you to return, John, because it's not about me. It was never about me, I…"

"It's always about you."

"I didn't want anything to be about me."

"Of course you didn't, Sherlock, because you're a self-deprecative drama queen with no sense of self-worth. So yes, I know, you do need me." He saw the glassy earnest in Sherlock's eyes and realized he may have been too harsh.

"My point is," He stuttered,

"I want the best for you, okay?" Sherlock simply looked confused. John rolled his eyes,

"I'm trying to tell you I care about you, you utter cock."

"I don't need you to…"

"Shut up, for once in your life. I'm going to help you, okay, you're going to be fine." Sherlock smiled sheepishly,

"You're going to be fine," He repeated, cupping Sherlock's face in his hand and gently stroking his cheek with his thumb,

"I assure it."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched silently as John slept beside him, wrapped in his gray comforter and collapsed beside his pillow. It was later than he expected, just past nine o'clock, which felt a bit odd considering John rarely woke after eight. He opened his curtains and pulled on his dressing gown as quietly as he could before slipping out of the room into the kitchen. It had only been several days since John began sleeping beside him, but it felt commonplace, as if it had always been that way. He absorbed himself in John's smells and the way they blended with his; dark steeped tea, deodorant, the slight moisture of last night's shower. Suddenly his bedroom came to life and he tried to find solace in the tranquil moments outside work, his small chances to simply spend time with John. He had always appreciated it, obviously, but somehow the comfort of John's presence had grown so much stronger since his temporary absence. He slouched in his chair and scrolled through emails searching for any contact from a client, eager to fill the day. Nothing. He heard John get out of bed and head straight for the shower, and he took the opportunity to search for where he had hidden his drugs and cigarettes. He knew he didn't get rid of them like he said. It was humorous how much John expected to go over Sherlock's head in terms of white lies. Him and Mrs. Hudson could bemoan all day long about how difficult it was to get rid of his substances, but he knew for certain they were somewhere in this flat. The stairs creaked as he headed upstairs to John's bedroom. He searched the empty drawers, under the bed, behind the broken floorboards, anywhere he knew John would have thought to hide something. He had vacated the room two days ago and Mrs. Hudson had already begun using it for storage. There were several boxes of rubbish in the corner, but beyond that, the room remained sparklingly empty without John's personality. He knew everything was hidden here, somewhere. _Somewhere_.

"Mrs. Hudson!" His voice echoed down the hallway and yielded no response. He sighed and trudged down towards her flat, pounding on the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" She appeared at once in her dressing gown,

"Shush, Sherlock! What's going on?"

"I'm going through withdrawal. _Withdrawal_ , Mrs. Hudson! And on top of it I'm lacking a case."

"And what am I to do about that?" He burst into her flat and paced anxiously about her kitchen.

"I don't know, but I can't tell John, I can't talk to John about…"

"He's your boyfriend and he's a doctor, Sherlock, I'm sure if you were to just talk to him, he would…" Sherlock shook his head and Mrs. Hudson noticed his hands were trembling as he spoke,

"It's not like that, you don't understand."

"You're right," She crossed her arms,

"I never understand what's going on in your funny old head."

"Where did he hide them? _Where are they?_ " Mrs. Hudson stepped back,

"Oh, no, no. We're not doing this."

" _See_ , that's precisely why I can't talk to John. Tell me where they are."

"We're only trying to help you."

"Well, you're not helping!" He suddenly realized he was shouting and heard John rushing down the stairs.

"What the hell is going on?" His face expressed concern and his hair was still wet from his shower,

"Noth..."

"Sherlock's going through withdrawal." Mrs. Hudson interrupted.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, attempting to step past John and escape the situation. John stopped him, bringing his face close to Sherlock's and lowering his voice,

"No, you're not, and we're taking this conversation upstairs." He grasped his wrist and lead him upstairs in frustration, thanking Mrs. Hudson for her help.

"Let go of me." Sherlock snapped. The fast decline of his physical state shocked him. Ten minutes ago he was reflecting on John's beauty in his bedroom and now suddenly he was pushing him away, shaking uncontrollably. He wanted nothing more than a hit.

"Sherlock!" John's voice reverberated in his head as his headache heightened,

"Listen to me, for God's sake." Sherlock rushed up the stairs and flopped onto the sofa facing away from John,

"Where are they?"

"We're going to have a conversation about this first."

"You always want to have a _fucking conversation_ , Jesus Christ, John, we don't need to do any more talking." He pulled his dressing gown tighter around his shoulders and shut his eyes. John scoffed and paced beside the sofa angrily,

"Fine. Then I'll just let you lay there and suffer." He began to walk away.

"Fine, fine! Fine. Don't go. My head is going to split open." Sherlock moaned. He heard John sigh across the room,

"I'll get you some ibuprofen and water." He returned several moments later and sat beside Sherlock on the couch, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Sit up, Sherlock," He obliged, steadying himself against John and grunting as the light burned his eyes.

"And don't be such a dick." John said sternly, handing Sherlock three orange pills and a glass of water.

"I feel terrible."

"Well," John began,

"That's understandable. You're going through severe withdrawal, and you'll be fine."

"Well," Sherlock imitated John's tone,

"I wouldn't feel so terrible if you would fucking tell me where you hid my stash."

"As your doctor, I'm not going to do that." Sherlock frowned,

"And as my boyfriend?"  
"As your boyfriend, I'm definitely not going to do that. I'll make some breakfast, I'll find you a case, and I'll keep refilling your water." He patted Sherlock's thigh and left him pouting and sipping his glass of water slowly.

"Oh, and next time," He said from the kitchen, pulling a pan from the cupboard,

"I won't help you unless you say please." Sherlock slouched back onto the couch and didn't move until John called out that breakfast was ready. He groaned and proceeded to sulk in the kitchen. John was typing furiously at his laptop beside his plate, absentmindedly taking bites of his food. Sherlock watched him carefully, noting the way he tapped the sides of the keyboard when he stopped to think. It was difficult to focus; instead, he slumped by the table and moaned,

"John…" Much to Sherlock's dismay, John didn't glance up from his screen, stating simply,

"Eat your toast."

"You're not any goddamn help." Sherlock mumbled under his breath. This time, John did look up. He pressed his lips together and rose from his chair.

"You know what? Fine." He said, slamming his laptop.

"You're right, I'm not any help at all. I'm only feeding you, catering to your every wish, and putting up with your shit. Fine, though. I'll just leave." Sherlock's gaze followed as John headed to the doormat and began putting on his shoes.

"John, I…"

"No, I'm going for a walk. I have better things to do that sit around and serve Sherlock bloody Holmes every moment of every day. I've been patient enough. You can find yourself a case. You can make yourself tea, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. You can do your own laundry. You can make your bed and vacuum like mummy and daddy taught you, don't mind me, I'm just your fucking housewife! And you're right, you don't need me at all." He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him before Sherlock could utter another word. His mind raced as he heard John stomp downstairs and watched as he crossed the street outside without looking back. His hands trembled as he spun around, his dressing gown twisting around him. What had he done? John had gotten angry, but what did he do? He hadn't cleaned the flat in ages, he never made the bed, he forgot to eat… He could solve it all before John came home in the evening. He could, he could fix all of it, John would come home happy and…

They were in the drawer with John's gun. The hidden cupboard in his desk upstairs. He knew, he _knew,_ he could find them. The flat was in a state of utter dismay, but he had found them. _Yes_.

John came into Baker Street and quietly shut the door behind him before heading upstairs. The flat was quiet and calm in the dusk of evening and he could still smell the undeniable scent of coffee shop on his own skin. He sighed before opening the door and running through his soliloquy in his head, _I want you to understand the importance of saying thank you sometimes, Sherlock. I love you. I…_ _no, don't say that. I care about you and I need you to know…_ he opened the door and Sherlock rushed to sit cross-legged on the sofa as if he had been caught in the act. A giddy grin came across his face as he looked up at John. Looking about the flat, John noticed something was awry. Everything was tidy, too tidy. There was no more clutter hiding the surface of Sherlock's desk, no more papers on the floor. The various mugs and nicknacks that littered the coffee table had disappeared. Sherlock's violin sat perched on its stand, not set haphazardly atop his case. Something was definitely wrong.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"What's going on? Oh, ha, this?" There was a dazed look in his eyes,

"I don't know, what do you think?" John gaped and wandered inside, eyeing the clean kitchen and immaculate countertops. Sherlock continued to grin and bounce slightly like a child.

"Did you clean?" Sherlock nodded vigorously. John smiled slightly,

"You didn't have to do that just because I was angry, Sherlock." It was a little too perfect. He watched as Sherlock continued to rock back and forth in his seat and beam up at him. He stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

"Stop doing that." His voice was suddenly stern.

"Doing what?"

"What's going on?" John squatted down to meet Sherlock's gaze,

"Nothing!" His response was too enthusiastic.

"Nothing, nothing!" He repeated, now shaking his head. John's grip felt abrupt on his arm as his voice lowered,

"Give me your arm."

"No!" Sherlock protested, pulling away,

"No, no! I did everything you asked, didn't I? Everything you wanted! You should be happy! I fixed it! I fixed it! What did I do wrong, John? Nothing, this time! I didn't do anything wrong, why are you angry?"

"How high are you?"

"Just a little." His voice was sheepish and small as he pulled himself into a ball and leaned away from John.

"I did everything you asked."

"You don't even know what I wanted, Sherlock. I wanted you to say thank you. And maybe sorry. But this, I… You've been almost a week without a relapse, what happened?"

"Ha!" Sherlock chuckled,

"I can't even make it a week." Suddenly his voice was sad and distant, off in his head, alone. John sighed and glanced down at the ground, unsure of what to say. He wasn't angry, not anymore. He simply didn't know what to do.

"I'm trying, John. I tried and I…"

"Sherlock," John reached up and held Sherlock's face in his hand, bringing himself closer. His eyes were glassy and their bright blue pierced through him as if he could see all his thoughts,

"I know. It's okay, I'm not angry at you, alright? Can we please talk about this instead of you getting…"

"I need a case. I need to get out of here and find something to do and I need to stop disappointing you, I don't know why you don't just leave, John." John shook his head,

"No, no. I'm not leaving. I do wish you could say thank you every once and a while, though." Sherlock held John's wrists, watching his expression carefully,

"And I did find you a case, by the way. Lestrade helped, a bit." Sherlock's lips curled into a small smile,

"And?"

"Triple murder." Sherlock nearly jumped from his seat.

"But —" He held him back,

"Scotland Yard won't listen to you while you're high. So, I suggest we grab dinner instead." Sherlock began to protest, but quickly gave in and conceded that, fine, they would get dinner.

"At least tell me the details of the case" He whined.

In the dim light of the restaurant, John recounted the egregious details of the case and watched as Sherlock tapped his fingertips atop the table in thought.

"A string of murders of the coast, near the reserve. It's not necessarily Scotland Yard's division, but the case came to their attention last week when the bullet wounds of the three individuals seemed to be from .50BMGs, hardly a run-of-the-mill bullet wound in an offbeat nature preserve. The immediate suspicion was Russian snipers, but Greg says that first of all the gun in question,"

"It wasn't the bloody Russians."

"Can I finish?"

"Yes,"

"The gun in question is suspected to be British in origin, not Russian, which doesn't necessarily provide much insight,"

"Or _a lot_ of insight… Alright, sorry, fine, continue,"

"So anyway, now they're saying terrorism but the key point is that their theories are increasingly bogus and they need you on the case."

"Some unusual bullet wounds and they need to call me in to solve the case? God, the Yard has been lacking." Sherlock shoved fried rice into his mouth and scoffed.

"Will you please at least take a look at the case? I promise it's not nearly as boring as it sounds."

"I'm already working on it, in fact. I have several ideas if you're interested in hearing them."

"Actually," John sipped his beer,

"I'm more interested in you shutting up at the moment. I'm sure mind palace John is a little less agitated with you, regardless." He smirked, but Sherlock knew his tone was serious. They watched as the cars rushed by outside and finished their meal in peace.


End file.
